Why is it that year after year, Hong Kong welcomes a new lorryload of tossers from overseas for its International Week who talk until the cows come home, drop names as if a Mars Attack is taking place and then,suddenly, suffer from severe arthritic cramps to their hands whenever the Jack and Jill- and Bill- arrives?
It really does piss one off- though it also helps unmask the Can Dos from the No-Can-Dos- while leaving us wondering how these useless knobs wrangled a media package from the HKJC in the first place and the amount of “coverage” they will provide.
Meeting some from “the media”, their “coverage” will not even be enough to cover the back of a postage stamp.
It just reeks of a free ride with an awful whiff of bs and delusionary self-importance attached to Mr Bean’s steering wheel.
Tossers aside- the queue forms on the left, by the way- this week is horse racing’s answer to Woodstock- except- pity- for the naked hippie chicks dancing in the mud- where a tribal gathering of pontificating, The Mail and, of course, bitchiness, will all come together at one end of the spectrum whereas at the other end will be the real star power players- the Cocker Power, Santana and The Who of this event.
In the middle of it all will be the wannabes- like the Plaster Casters of Rock- the groupies who are ready to do whatever it takes to get backstage and play in the same sandbox with the big boys and girls.
Ladies and gentlemen, Welcome to Hong Kong International Week brought to you by Longines, which, like global music and advertising conferences- and we have attended a gut full of them- brings together The Good, The Bad, The Ugly and The Fugly.
Yes, it takes all types, and until next Monday, all types will be holding sway at the Champagne Bar, the New World Harbour View, ATM machines, The Blue Bar, the Grand Hyatt, Escape, back to the nearest ATM machine, Spicy Fingers, Dusk Till Dawn and Al’s Diner while those with sufficient “coin” will be at Goodfellas and then leave with their takeaways to dance in gilded cages with ladies wearing g-strings, sipping colored 7Up in martini glasses and bored with it, but paid to smile, all at that very special members club in a side street on Lan Kwai Fong few know about.
It’s all part of the calm before the storm until those barriers open at Shatin on Sunday and thundering hooves navigate their way through the traffic with riders shouting out for others to get outta their way so they can get to the winning post first.
Before then, just sit back and watch the mooches attend dinners- they’re free- the lunches-also free- the Breakfast With The Stars- also free- see who they can tag along with for more freebies- and then bitch that the Beef Medallion was leathery, or how the wines were ordinaire or that the evening was a complete farce.
Talk about biting the hand that feeds you- literally.
Already calls from mates in Oz- and others we haven’t heard from in decades- are coming through fast and furiously about this and that columnist from towns we never knew existed being in town and who’d like to buy us a beer. No thanks. Please. Plus we don’t drink beer.
Still, as at Woodstock, it’s all about getting to and being at Yasgur’s Farm- being part of the Greatest Show On Turf and an United Nations Of Racing that also has its surreal moments comprising a very unique sideshow and three penny horse opera that, at times, is more entertaining than The Main Attraction and Main Event.
And, hey, it’s free.